Faith and Fury

Christianity got over the difficulty of combining furious opposites, by keeping them both, and keeping them both furious.
G.K. Chesterton

A few days ago I attended a funeral at a home for a 6 months old child who died unexpectedly in his sleep. It was an intense experience. There was mourning and crying, evangelism and repentance, love and embracing. There was none of the distant “I’m here to pay my respects” atmosphere of a lot of American funerals. It was, well, real.

One of the things that struck me was that no one questioned that God was responsible for the death of this child. At the same time, those present were seeking God for comfort. The Taker of life was appealed to as the Giver of comfort. There was peace in that house. But don’t misunderstand me: the peace in that home was not an easy peace, but a peace that came from the imponderable balance of God as King, and God as Father. There was a certain fury in it. And that reminded me of Chesterton’s words.

Christianity has always had vigorous contradictions in its deepest mysteries, and the poles of each contradiction are heresies. God is three Persons in one Essence. But He is neither three Gods nor one Person in three modes. The truth is in the wonder that is neither. The Son of God is two natures in one Person. But He is neither an amalgam of two natures, nor two Persons in one body. The truth is in the wonder that is neither.

The fact is that the great mysteries invoke not understanding, but a confession of faith. The early creeds do not begin with “I comprehend,” but with credo (“I believe”). And I like to think that the church of those days did not mumble the credo, but spoke it with profundity and energy.

I remember teaching a discipleship class years ago in Guatemala. Somehow we got on the subject of the attributes of God. I went to the board, and at one end wrote Sobierno (sovereignty), and at the other Bondad (goodness), and asked if the students could reconcile the two, or if they had a favorite. There ensued the usual heated argument that arises over these two poles. One side accused the other of believing in an arbitrary tyrant, and, conversely, of believing in a weak and confused God controlled by chance and the will of man. We finally concluded that one could not stand without the other, and both needed to be confessed furiously.

I have now lapsed into theology, and from theology into abstraction. But what I saw the other night was not abstract. It was the reality being lived out. I think I understand better now what Jesus meant when he said, “Until now the kingdom of God suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.”

Athens and Jerusalem

I recently read John Joseph's Collins’ Between Athens and Jerusalem, in preparation for a New Testament course I'll be teaching in a few weeks. Collin's book is a study of the attempts of the Jewish Diaspora to offer an apologetic for their faith in a Greek environment during the inter-testament period (@200 BC to 100 AD), particularly in Alexandria. He analyses a number of pseudo-graphical and apocryphal texts from the period, with some references to Philo.

Let me try to summarize, though I run the risk of over-simplifying: the Greek thinking class in Egypt during the Ptolemaic period was philosophical and in pursuit of the good life based on reason. Many of them leaned towards monotheism and were fairly moral. Jewish thinkers, who were driven by a need to be accepted in the culture, assumed Greek categories and attempted to mold their own tradition into those. Therefore the Torah was presented as a superior philosophy, and obedience to the commandments was a means to discovering the “good, the true, and the beautiful.” Traditions that made the Jews unique, such as circumcision and dietary laws, were played down or not mentioned at all.

How successful Jewish apologetic writings actually were is debatable. Collins believes that much of the attempt involved preaching to the choir. There was always the issue of whether Jews should be included in the Greek upper and middle classes, or in the Egyptian lower class. The former was generally true under the Ptolemies, the latter under Roman rule. While there were notable conversions to Judaism during the period, most apologetic literature was designed to help the Jew define his own place in the society while holding to his traditions.

This is a fascinating period of history that has led me up a number of rabbit trails that may or may not be relevant. Follow if you wish.

First, it is easy in hindsight to condemn the Jewish writers of this period for blatant syncretism. The Hasidim and the Pharisees in Palestine certainly thought so. We see a result of this in the conflict between Greek and Aramaic speaking Christians in the early church. But syncretism is always easier to spot from outside a culture than within it. Consider the overlap of the “American Way of Life” and Christianity in our own time. We are far too close to both to untangle them. Perhaps we need African and Asian eyes to gain perspective.

Second, those centuries are in some ways a microcosm of western civilization (even down to our day) which can be defined in terms of the relationship of Hellenism and Hebraism. In an essay by that name in Culture and Anarchy, Matthew Arnold defined both: “The uppermost idea of Hellenism is to see things as they really are; the uppermost idea of Hebraism is conduct and obedience.” Both seek to attain salvation, one by right thinking, the other by right action.

Arnold saw the Renaissance of the 14th and 15th Centuries as the rediscovery of Hellenism in what was a Hebraic culture, followed by a Hebraic reaction in the Reformation, followed by the twin antagonists--the Enlightenment and Puritanism, both of which influenced our American founding documents. We’ve never quite settled whether our founding fathers were Christians or humanists. I’ve read books assigning them to both categories, written with great conviction and copious footnotes. My favorite was the tongue-in-cheek wag who gave up and described them as “Evangelical, Bible-believing deists.” My point here is not to discredit one or the other, but to suggest that both are alive and well with us, and are still intertwined in our culture, mirrored in our “conservative” and “liberal” terminology.

Third: “Morph” is an interesting new word in the American vocabulary. It has a more sinister tone than “metamorphasize.” One thinks of shape changers and zombies. It conveys the idea of change, not usually for the better. It also conveys the notion that that which “morphs” contains within itself the seed of its own change, usually for the worse, though I suppose something can morph “up.” It has a fatalistic tone. Anyway--after that digression--I was struck in Collins’ book with how both Hellenism and Hebraism morph into other forms through history.

For instance, Collins spends a good deal of time on the transition in Greek thought from rationalism to mysticism, how even in Plato there is a personification of philosophy that leads to the exaltation of the logos or sophia. There is a steady progression from the pursuit of pure Forms to the chain of being that leads to Light in later Gnosticism. Some Jewish writers of the period capitalized on this “ascent” and equated the Light with the Giver of Torah. This “morphing” from reason to secret revelation of the divine (from science to alchemy) reoccurs in history. Consider modern rationalistic evolutionists whose description of the life force (elan vital) is loaded with so much awe that it borders on worship. Whew. I’m not sure I can go any further with that.

But having gone there, I suppose it’s necessary to ask if Hebraism can morph. Pure Hebraism, in my mind, was never really meant to be a religion of salvation by law, but of love and grace, as the believer was forced by his failures in his duties to seek for supernatural intervention. Consider that while Psalm 119 is packed with synonyms for “commandment,” it is equally packed with imperatives like “teach me.” “revive me,” “open my eyes.” Without this craving for grace, Hebraism becomes self-righteous legalism, which is exactly what it morphs into. The church is certainly no stranger to it.

So, I suppose, as Hellenism and Hebraism morph into their mature forms, thinking westerners will be confronted with either mysticism or legalism, a poor choice.

Fourth: Let me at this point speak as a Christian, since we are dealing with world-views that deal with salvation. The problem with Hellenism and Hebraism, rationalism and action, mysticism and legalism, is that they all involve human effort in the attainment of whatever “salvation” might mean, whether it be eternal life or a peaceful existence in this one. Even Matthew Arnold, whose bias is definitely towards Hellenism, admits that both views ignore the sinfulness of sin. Reason is both finite and twisted. Dutiful action before God is always tainted with subtle self-centeredness. Both fail to deliver what they promise.

I would like to be able to say that Christianity offers a way out. But the fact is that Christianity has been as influenced by Hellenism and Hebraism as any institution in western culture. The Alexandrian school of Christianity continued the allegorical method of Philo, and I am not sure whether the Roman Church has yet decided whether Origen was a heretic. Synergistic legalism has created long lists of do’s and don’ts that rival the Pharisaic code of Jesus’ day. Christianity can almost be defined by its relationship to Hellenism and Hebraism (or their conflict) in any point of its history.

So instead of considering Christianity, let‘s consider its Head. There we begin to get some light. At that point the issue becomes one of soteriology. If my reason is flawed, how do I find wisdom? If I am cursed with pride and selfishness, where do I find the power to fulfill my duty? And here we move from ideas to direction--Hellenism and Hebraism both call me up. But the glory of the Gospel is that God comes down. Wisdom comes to me. Power to obey comes to me. God takes the initiative in a world that has exhausted its own. The embodiment of all that Hellenism and Hebraism ever wished to be becomes incarnate in a world that cannot find up. The truth is backwards.

“Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek after wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.”

-1 Corinthians 1:20-25 (ESV)

American Gods

Just finished reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods. Written in 2001, the publishers have come out with an expanded version this year, and the book is experiencing a resurgence. Most modern novels are written as screen-plays, and American Gods is no different. The internet tells me the movie will be out soon. Hopefully we will be spared the gratuitous sex scenes, but I doubt it.

The plot of American Gods is this: America is populated by a hosts of old gods brought over by immigrants from Europe, Africa, India, and eastern Asia. These gods only live because somewhere someone still believes in them. They are weak and dying out because America is not a fertile land for gods, and because new materialistic gods (automobiles, internet, etc) are usurping the need for them. The new gods are short-lived because technology is constantly changing.

War clouds between the two groups thicken as the plot unfolds, until the inevitable conflict erupts at (would you believe?) Rock City on Lookout Mountain. Disaster is averted because Shadow, the anti-hero, uncovers a plot by Odin and Loki, who have created the whole scenario to increase their power by bloodshed and chaos. At the last minute he addresses the gathered combatants, stops the conflict, and everyone goes home to live (or fade away) happily ever after.

It is always good to read fiction at several levels, and I want to try and evaluate it in layers. First, from a Christian perspective: Gaiman's approach is purely humanistic. The gods are projections of men's needs and visions, and lose their power and their own existence if they are not believed in and worshiped. In contrast the God of the Two Testaments is not diminished in his essence by lack of faith or adoration. He is a concrete reality apart from any perception of him.

Gaiman's personification of the gods may express a deeper reality in Christian cosmology. One of the most humorous passages is a conversation between the goddess Eostre and a waitress in a local restaurant. When asked if she believes in goddesses, the waitress replies that she worships the inner feminine principle--adhering to an abstraction in the face of the fearful reality. Christianity certainly believes in personalities behind bad thinking.

Jesus is marginalized in American Gods. He is pictured briefly roaming the Middle East and looking lost. Shadow's conversation with him is not in the body of the text, but is added in the appendix of the new edition. Jesus complains that he feels spread too thin by the multiplicity of interpretations of who he is. He also feels harried by the number of prayers that involve solving people's problems. Hmm.

Gaiman also takes the classic humanist position that all religion is projection, and that Christianity is simply an extension of the old mythologies--that Christianity stole the best of paganism. Christmas is the Saturnalia, Easter is Eostre's day, etc. This is no place to take on those worn arguments. Gaiman needs a dose of George McDonald, Chesterton, Tolkien, and CS Lewis, who dealt definitively with them (mythology is the result of "rays of celestial glory falling on a garbage heap of imbecility....").

In the end, Gaiman favors stereotypical American Indian pantheism. Brother fox and brother wolf and sister moon and brother man are all one in the loving hand of mother earth. Nothing new here.

Then there is American Gods as literature: All good fiction tells the truth. It creeps out sometimes in spite of the author's attempt to go in a different direction. Behold! Shadow, the dark hero, dies alone, tied to a tree, fulfilling a covenant with the great sky-father (Odin), who turns out to be his biological father as well (Shadow is therefore man and god). He descends into the lower regions, where he learns great and mystical truths, defeats the powers of darkness, and returns to life just in time to save the earth from destruction. He reveals the heart of a secret murderer, and grants his wife (bride??) her final wish. Shadow possesses none of the depth of Jean Valjean or Sydney Carton, or even Frodo and Sam. But there it is: the same theme stated over again. Dark truth, but truth. Astounding.

Lastly, American Gods as a piece of "americana": Gaiman seems to want it looked at that way. It is, at a cultural level, a statement about materialism and spirituality. American technological and communicative inventiveness is moving so fast that it is impossible to catch up, and American gods are changing so rapidly, that a spiritual exhaustion and hunger is on the rise. Unfortunately, many are "looking for love in all the wrong places." American Gods is a good synopsis of current cultural tensions, and reveals an opportunity for the church, if she can humble herself and learn the language.

Summer Thoughts

During the summer months my reading has consisted in what I would call devotional literature: portions of John Chrysostom, Augustine, St. John of the Cross, de Caussade, St. Seraphim, Hannah Whithall Smith, Calvin’s Institutes, and Luther's Table Talk. I've done this purposefully because I've had an urge to feed my soul instead of my mind, feeling that I need to shake my encrusted presuppositions and habits.

All those men and women of the Spirit have challenged and worked changes in my inner self. But I find myself coming away with a satiety that makes me uncomfortable and still unfulfilled. All of these works share a common cast of characters-- two, to be exact: God and the human soul. Simply put, spirituality is vertical. Horizontal relationships with other human beings, especially Christians, are secondary fruits of the inner changes wrought on the soul by God Himself. That the horizontal itself might be a means of discovering God seems rare in the devotional literature.

That does not mean that these writers do not mention or exalt the place of the church in the believer’s life. But it is the church defined by function: it is the authoritative and only source of Word and Sacrament. The church becomes a shadowy abstraction that provides necessary services, instead of a living organism that brings the life of Christ to me through flesh and blood.

What is the Word unless it comes to me through another, who in his own uniqueness sees truths and tastes Christ in ways that my own frame of mind would keep me blind to until I die? What is the Word unless someone I trust holds me to it, and insists that I walk it out instead of intellectualizing about it?

And what is the Sacrament if we do not understand that we are one Body because we partake of the one Loaf? That as I feed on Christ I feed on my brother, and as I feed on my brother I feed on Christ?

I have surfeited myself this summer on the Greats, but am beginning to feel like a giant fat spider in a lonely corner. I would be happy with an evening of wine and jokes, of honesty and acceptance, of the warmth of other’s homes and children, of kitchen smells. There, beyond all the great works, I believe I could find Christ where He truly dwells.

Thoughts on Idols and the Dark Night

I once heard a pastor say, in reference to God's dealings with Old Testament Israel, that God does not come against a people, but against its idols. That is true of the church corporately, but more especially of the individual believer.

In The Dark Night of the Soul, St. John of the Cross relates the seven deadly sins to idolatry of the heart. And these idols are not, as we might expect, idols of gross fleshly indulgence, but idols of the Christian man--sins coated with a religious or spiritual veneer. Let me summarize these, remembering that though St. John places these in the context of Catholic monasticism, they apply to any brand of Christian.

--Pride: self-congratulation over spiritual exercises, ecstatic experiences, and perceived spiritual maturity. Spiritual pride will not allow a man to confess his deepest and grossest sins, and causes him to hang out with like minded folks who look down on the great unwashed masses. A prideful Christian is impatient with his own shortcomings, believing that he should be beyond them already. His acceptance by God is performance based. He resents others when God advances them. Pride's opposite is humility, and love that seeks the advancement of others at one's own expense.

--Avarice: discontent with the level of spirituality that God grants. A Christian afflicted with avarice is constantly seeking counsel, reading to find the secret of spiritual growth, and experimenting with new gadgets that will make him more spiritually mature--a new rosary, a uniquely shaped crucifix, or for Protestants, a new translation of the Bible (the ESV on Kindle!) or anything made from olive wood grown in Israel (especially if it is ornamented with Hebrew script). Avarice's opposite is contentment.

--Luxury: enjoyment of the pleasure of spiritual experience to the point of pursuing feeling rather than God. All friendships, public services, and private devotions are centered on a subjective response. Luxury's opposite is the pursuit of God for himself.

--Wrath: impatience with one's own spiritual growth. It's indicator is anger when times of spiritual fervor or renewal are over, or are taken away. It rises when the Christian believes that others are humiliating him. Wrath also expresses itself by constant irritation with the sins and slow growth of others. Christians who are prone to wrath also look at hardship as proof of God's rejection rather than proof of fatherly discipline. Wrath's opposite is patience.

--Gluttony: overdoing secondary means that bring spiritual growth or experience--fasting, praying, the sacraments, study, silence, etc. Gluttony produces a lack of balance in the use of spiritual disciplines. One sign of its presence is peevishness and being encouraged to moderation by others. Its opposite is just that: moderation.

--Envy: quite simply, displeasure at the virtues of others, and their being praised or advanced by the leaders of the church. Envy's opposite is love.

--Sloth: wanting only spiritual blessing, and avoiding and questioning any hardship. A slothful Christian questions God's will when it crosses his own will, measures himself by himself, and resists discipline. It's opposite is courage.


* * *

We are all familiar with these "spiritual" sins, but less familiar and even frustrated by God's response to them. Let me make the following observations:

First, God wants us wholly for himself, and in order for that to occur, we must learn two truths: we are depraved creatures, unable to save ourselves; and God loves us and gives himself far us beyond our understanding.

Second, an idol is anything from which we gain identity or define ourselves outside God (Neil Silverburg). Much of our Christian experience is simply God casting down our idols.

Third, idols can be, and frequently are, our most dearly held beliefs, practices, and attachments, including church, ministry, and our own practices of devotion and discipline (Bible study, prayer, meditation, fellowship, worship, sacraments, relationships, blogging, and Facebook). God periodically brings us into "dark nights" when none of these things seem to work for us. In such times the soul finds no pleasure outside the knowledge that God is working to be our identity solely.

Fourth, The casting down of idols sets us free.

Thoughts on the Transfiguration

"After six days Jesus took Peter, James and John with him and led them up a high mountain, where they were all alone. There he was transfigured before them. His clothes became dazzling white, whiter than anyone in the world could bleach them. And there appeared before them Elijah and Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (He did not know what to say, they were so frightened.)
Then a cloud appeared and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud: “This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!” Suddenly, when they looked around, they no longer saw anyone with them except Jesus."

Before I get into this text, I need to define the audience of this blog. Theologically minded Christians will find in the Transfiguration account an exposition of the divine/ human natures of Jesus in one Person, liturgists will find the hidden glory of Christ in the Eucharist, and social action believers will skip the whole episode to get to the deliverance of the demonized boy at the foot of the mountain, for whom this text is but a prelude.

But there are a few folks out there, either Protestant charismatics or Roman contemplatives (and a handful of evangelical mystics), who long for such a revelation of the glorified Christ either corporately or privately. They desire the Presence that transforms, that humbles the flesh-- a foretaste in this life of the final consummation of spiritual union. I am not offering an apologetic for such subjective experiences, but taking them as a given. Those who believe in revelations of the presence of God are my audience.

We in the experiential camp refer to such an encounter as a "mountain-top experience." The term conveys the ideas of light, love, and renewed comprehension of God--all positive notions. But I think we are mistaken. In reality, I can't think of any literal mountain top experience in the Scriptures that was so positive. The people fled from Sinai. Elijah was almost destroyed at Horeb. The prophets of Baal were wiped out at Carmel. And the greatest mountain top experience in history occurred at Golgotha. The experience of the three disciples at the Transfiguration was anything but sweetness and light. The text says they were "frightened." The ESV uses "terrified." They were in fact reduced to a state of (here is a southernism) total discobobulation, if not outright stupidity. Here are some points to ponder if we are to pursue the manifest presence of God.

First, don't push it. The disciples were not present at the Transfiguration because they had fasted and prayed ("tarried") in preparation. It took them totally off guard. Jesus revealed himself to them in such a manner in his own good time, knowing where the disciples were in their spiritual progress. He warned them to keep it to themselves, because his glory could not be understood outside of the context of the resurrection and the ascension. God is in sovereign control of such occurrences and knows the stages of the development of the human soul, and when they will bear proper fruit.

Second, hush. Human beings have an intense need to jabber when encountered with something over their heads--sorta like an urge to tellthe President that you once ran for president of your 7th grade class (and lost). The disciples felt they had to say something. The fact is that they were prostrate outside an incomprehensible conversation between superiors. The disciples were mere spectators, and there was wisdom in accepting the fact.

Third, bear it. In such moments the human soul is aware of only two things: It is more evil than it ever knew; It is more loved than it ever knew (stolen from Pastor Neil). The work of the burning presence of Christ unveiled is far deeper than knowledge. The soul is totally in his hands, and there is no recourse to conventional mental habits, nor is there a context by which to control the Spirit’s work. Bare trust is its only consolation.

Fourth, be still. Peter couldn’t control his urge to do something: “Let’s make some tents.” The idea is so ludicrous--that beings who for centuries had lived in a perfected state learning the mysteries of God needed a place to stay, is embarrassing. Some of Peter’s response is based on the need to cover and control the glory-- lock it up and let it out at intervals--but I think at a deeper level it arose from the need to respond to God with action, residual Performance Based Acceptance. The only true response to a manifestation of Divinity is a yielded heart. No action is called for on the human side; all the action is God’s initiative. Activity blocks the flow of the Spirit's work.

Lastly, such moments are rare, and not the stuff of everyday Christian life. That is why, after the glory of the Transfiguration, God pointed the disciples to Jesus and said, “Listen to him.” The Jesus to whom the Father referred was the Jesus who walked with them and understood their humanity, with whom they could communicate, whose divinity was present but not overwhelming, accommodating their weakness. That, through the Spirit, is the Christ we encounter everyday. The rest is in his plan for us.

Vacation

Enjoyed our vacation with family at Hilton Head. One of my favorite things was to rise early and go outside to sit and read with a cup of coffee, interrupted by an occasional squirrel or lizard. I'm definitely a morning person. I admit I have some resentment about giving my employer the best hours of my day. By evening I'm not much good, and reading is a real effort at night.

I began to re-read Calvin's Institutes. His negative reputation among evangelicals is a puzzle to me. His work is full of joy at God's creation, and his description of Christ as Mediator (his favorite term for the Lord) is worth the read.

I also tackled The Dark Night of the Soul (St. John of the Cross), a classic of Roman mystical theology. It struck me as I was reading that St. John was describing universal mystical experience, and that a Catholic, an Orthodox, an "exchanged life" Protestant, a Buddhist, or a Sufi could identify with the painful process of moving from the world of sight and thought into the bliss of the Divine Love. Whether the process is looked upon as an attainment of the soul to a higher plane, or (from a Protestant point of view) the struggle of faith to believe that Christ has accomplished all we need for life and godliness, the experience is the same.

As usual on vacations, I contemplated my age and the future. I have a greater peace about both than I did a year ago. The refuge of old thoughts and habits is like an old leaky hut--not much there in the way of substance any more.

"I love thee, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer,
my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge,
my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold."